


Just Dropping By

by poselikeateam



Series: Vampire Bards (and the Witchers Who Love Them) [8]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood and Injury, Buff Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Fake Character Death, Falling In Love, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parent, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Injury Recovery, Just gals bein pals, POV Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, POV Essi Daven, Vampires, Witcher Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Witcher Contracts, soft, vampire Essi Daven, witcher mutations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 20,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: Essi is... well, she's not perfectly content to spend a human lifetime as a recluse, but she's made her bed, and she's going to lie in it. That is, until a mysterious woman quite literally drops into her home. The woman, it turns out, is a witcher. They become fast friends... and perhaps something more?
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Vesemir, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Essi Daven, Minor or Background Relationship(s), past Essi Daven/Geralt of Rivia
Series: Vampire Bards (and the Witchers Who Love Them) [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1892647
Comments: 57
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

Essi doesn't really mind the quiet. Unlike her siblings, she is perfectly content to spend the next sixty years or so on her own, quietly learning and creating and compiling enough material for her second start. It's not like she's a recluse, or anything. She greets her neighbours, she feeds when she must, she sometimes takes meals at the local tavern. It's just that... she miscalculated.

Look, Essi is not like her siblings. Sure, someone may look at their family and see three bards (four, if you count old Valdo, though she doesn't tend to; out of sight, out of mind, as it were) and think they're all the same. To be fair, Jaskier and Priscilla certainly fit into a lot of the stereotypes for twins. They are almost uncomfortably similar in a great many ways. And, of course, there are things that she shares with them. The point is that she isn't like them, because she's not quite so perceptive.

Specifically, she's not great at taking others into account. She tends to focus on one miniscule detail, rather than seeing the big picture, seeing something for what it is. 

When Essi met Geralt of Rivia, she saw in him an opportunity, a fairytale. The only people she'd ever met, before that point, were her family, and mortals. Essi loves the idea of love, loves the idea of having a romance of her own, but it's very difficult to do that when everyone around her is going to die in the blink of an eye. Yes, she's only been around for maybe seventy, eighty-something years? But that's as long as humans generally tend to get at all, whereas she's still considered somewhat of a fledgling. 

So when she met Geralt, she saw someone who would stay (relatively) young alongside her. She saw a man who desperately wanted to be loved, the same way she did. What she didn't see was her brother.

She's not proud of it. She doesn't know how she missed it. Jaskier had been in love with Geralt for _ages_ by that point. The absolute bastard was willing to put all of that aside anyway for _Essi_ to have a chance at the happiness that _he_ had craved for far longer. It wasn't fair. It wasn't _right_. And she didn't find out until after they slept together.

They slept together, and Essi knew something was missing, knew that she wasn't meant to have that fairytale romance; or, at least, if she _was_ , it wasn't meant to be with _him_. Geralt was very good, an attentive lover, eager to please, but it just wouldn't work. She didn't want what she'd thought she wanted.

She panicked. All she was thinking, at the time, was how badly she wanted to remove herself from the equation altogether, to save herself from the embarrassment of fucking her future brother-in-law. (She had been absolutely sure that they were meant to be as soon as she got her head out of her own ass and properly looked. Last she heard, they're together now. Took the fools long enough.) At the time, she had thought it would be a great idea to fake her own death. Jaskier, perhaps knowing that she wouldn't hear any argument he made, reported her passing. News spread broadly and quickly. Essi Daven is dead, long live Essi Daven. 

Of course, she found out rather quickly that it wasn't ideal. She has to wait for everyone who knew her to forget about her, but she's going to wait until her old classmates die, for good measure. She doesn't want to go back home to Mama, though. Even though Mama will surely welcome her back with open arms, it will feel like a failure, an admission of defeat, to slink back to Lettenhove with her tail between her legs. Essi has never been particularly good at dealing with failure.

So here she is, living in a cozy, rather spacious cabin, just outside of a small town she'd never been to during her supposed lifetime. No one recognises her here, and she rarely sees visitors. It's not _ideal_ , but she's made her bed, and now it's time to lie in it. She's willing to wait out her time quietly, and relatively alone.

However, she never accounted for the possibility of a strange woman quite literally dropping, out of nowhere, directly into her sitting room.


	2. Chapter 2

Ciri may have the powers of Space and Time at her disposal, but she hasn’t allowed it to make her cocky. A cocky witcher is a dead witcher, after all, and Vesemir always made sure to remind her of it. She tries her best to prepare for a hunt as well as any other witcher, and she knows when she’s outmatched. She’s not above retreating; after all, it’s better to live to fight another day, to come back and actually kill the beast, than to fall to it and never be able to hunt again.

She’s a damn good witcher, and that’s not hubris talking. Geralt has a habit of joking about retirement, and Ciri taking his place on the Path. Honestly, she doesn’t know why he hasn’t, yet. She understands boredom, of course, but surely he could find a less deadly way to occupy himself? 

Ha. She’s been listening to Jaskier for a bit too long, it seems.

At any rate, Ciri knows when it’s time to duck out. The only problem is finding the opportunity. Sometimes, it’s hard to recognise or admit that she’s not going to win this or that fight, and by time she _does_ it’s almost too late to back out.

That’s where the Elder Blood is, finally, good for something.

She thought she would be able to handle this contract on her own but it hadn’t shaken out that way. She’s good, but the Leshen had been just that little bit better. To be fair, she hadn’t known that it was ancient until it was too late. She’d prepared for a beast with a lot less experience. 

Teleporting out of the fight had been almost as risky as staying, between her injuries and the lack of opportunity to focus on where she wanted to go. Still, something that might go horribly wrong is a better bet than something that definitely will. She used the last of her energy to get out of there, and was almost relieved when she dropped into what appeared to be someone’s home. It only lasted a moment, though, before she blacked out.

When she wakes up, it takes a second for her to remember what had happened. She tries to sit up, but everything hurts. The fight wasn’t a dream, then, she thinks, but where _is_ she? She wants to open her eyes, but she can’t even do that. She’s so _tired_.

“Shh, you’re safe,” someone says. A woman, it sounds like, with a soft, kind, melodious voice. “Just rest for now, and you’ll be right as rain when you wake again.”

She doesn’t have it in her to argue. Whoever that voice belongs to, if they wanted to hurt her, they’d have done it already while she was unconscious. At least, she hopes so. Either way, she can’t really keep sleep from taking her again if she tries. 

Ciri falls back asleep, and right on the edge of consciousness, she thinks she can feel fingers running softly through her hair.


	3. Chapter 3

The woman that materialises in Essi’s home is androgynous, but unmistakably a woman. She’s well-muscled, clearly used to physical exertion, but her musculature is rather masculine and her face is angular and chiseled, framed by ashen-blonde hair, though it’s currently tangled and matted with blood. There’s a scar that runs over her eye and down her cheek, and as Essi bandages her wounds, she sees more of them scattered across the woman’s body. 

Her clothes are torn and bloodied, and unfortunately there’s nothing Essi can do but throw them out. They may be little more than bloody rags now, but her clothes paint a picture of someone who’s clearly comfortable with, if not proud of, her own body; someone who knows that she’s attractively built and has no qualms with flaunting the gorgeous body she has. The shirt is low-cut, and under any other circumstances, Essi would love to get lost in her soft breasts. As it stands, she’s not the type to molest an unconscious stranger, and nursing someone back to health isn’t exactly the sexiest of circumstances even if she was that type of deplorable monster. 

Instead, Essi continues to make note of the woman’s appearance and possessions. Her makeup is smudged to all hells, but was probably very fetching before the grime of battle messed it all up. She’s lightly armoured, and Essi makes a mental note to take her gear to the local armourer on her next excursion. There are two swords on her person, and the bard tries very hard not to give in to the unnecessary panic that tries to make its home in her chest. She’s never heard of a woman witcher, after all.

And then she sees the medallion.

For a moment, she does panic. A witcher, here? It’s obvious that she’s here on accident, but she’s still _here_. What is going to happen when she wakes up? 

The medallion, upon closer inspection, is not in the shape of a wolf, but a cat, and Essi breathes a sigh of relief. All of the anxiety leaves her, leaving exhaustion in its wake. She tries her best to finish cleaning and bandaging the witcher woman’s injuries. Curiously, she doesn’t have any of those potions they tend to carry. Perhaps she’s out?

Well, Essi can’t ask her right now, that’s for certain. She can only wait for her to wake.

She does, a few times, but barely. The woman is badly hurt, and while she’s healing faster than a human, it’s not nearly as fast as she remembers witcher healing to be. There’s a story here, she can feel it. It’s not her business, of course, but she can’t help but be curious. There’s nothing wrong with asking, after all, and the stranger can always decline to answer. 

Again, though, she has to wait for her to fully wake.

It’s a few days before she does. Essi will admit that the witcher likely would have woken up far sooner, but she’d gone to the apothecary and asked for their strongest sedatives, not sure exactly how much (if any) would work on this enigmatic stranger. What she did know was that this woman needed time to heal, and witchers don’t really tend to listen to that sort of advice when given. She’s heard it from both of her siblings, now: they seem to have a genuine aversion to rest, three quarters of the year. 

Either way, the woman wakes, and when she does she is almost fully healed. Still, “Careful,” Essi gently chides. “You’ll want to get up slowly, at first. Drink this — just water, worry not, but you need it.”

The woman sips at the water slowly, even though she must be absolutely parched. Good, because Essi doesn’t want her to make herself sick. 

“Thank you,” the woman says when she finishes drinking. When Essi looks into her eyes, she sees not yellow irises and slitted pupils, but a vibrant green, entirely human. Curiouser and curiouser. 

“It’s no trouble,” says Essi. “You must have questions, though. I know I do. If I may, I’d like to start with your name.”

The woman looks wary, guarded. Essi supposes it only makes sense. The world is still not overly kind to witchers. Finally, carefully, she answers, “Ciri.”

“Ciri,” Essi repeats, feeling it on her tongue. “That’s a lovely name. I’m Essi Daven.”

Now, the woman’s— Ciri’s brow furrows. “That sounds familiar,” she says, slowly. “I’m sure I’ve heard it before, somewhere. Have we met?”

Oh, _shit_. Somehow, it had entirely slipped her mind that her brother wrote a fake obituary for her. Her _famous poet_ brother. 

“No, we haven’t met,” she says after a silence that lasts just a beat too long. “I’d… rather not get into it, if it’s all the same to you.”

Ciri gives her a very critical look, and Essi is worried that she’s going to argue, but then she nods. “I understand,” she says. “Sometimes, it’s best for the past to stay in the past.” 

“Well said, Lady Witcher,” Essi replies, breathing a sigh of relief. 

The witcher snorts rather inelegantly. “Ciri will do just fine, _Lady Daven_.” 

Shuddering slightly, Essi says, “Point taken, Ciri. Essi will do just fine, as well.”

And this, unbeknownst to the both of them, is how it begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is gonna be so gay and I'm having so much fun


	4. Chapter 4

Ciri hates convalescing. It’s probably her absolute least favourite part of being a witcher. She’d rather be spat on; at least that only lasts a moment. Still, a part of her thinks that maybe she’d simply been doing it wrong until now. She’s having a good time, staying with Essi. As much as she hates sitting still, the other woman never makes her feel useless, and she always keeps her entertained. 

They share stories, and jokes, and little pieces of knowledge. Essi is a bard, it turns out. Ciri asks if she knows Jaskier, and the response is… slightly unexpected. Her cheeks darken, and she doesn’t look Ciri in the eye, and she awkwardly murmurs, “In a sense.” Ciri assumes that she’s simply another of his bedpartners, and drops the subject. They don’t bring Jaskier up again, either of them. As a result, Ciri also doesn’t mention Geralt by name. She isn’t sure if it will remind the bard of her former paramour, to mention his longtime companion. 

It’s just over a week into her convalescence when Essi sets down her lute and swallows, clearly nervous. It’s strange enough to see the usually-confident woman this uneasy, and Ciri isn’t entirely sure she likes where this is going.

“Ciri?”

“Yes, Essi?”

“You asked where you’d heard my name before,” says the bard. “I think… I think I really ought to explain it.”

“You don’t have to—” Ciri begins, trying to reassure her, but Essi quiets her.

“No, but I’d _like_ to. I just don’t want you to think any less of me,” she says.

Well, _that_ has Ciri’s attention. “You can tell me anything,” she says. It sounds ridiculous, coming from someone who’s only known her for a little over a week, but they’ve become very close in that short time. “I’m sure that, whatever it is, I’ve seen or done far worse.”

Honestly, she isn’t sure what she’s expecting. Essi seems too kind to be a murderer, but bards are good at making enemies if they write the wrong things about the wrong people. Perhaps she’s a fugitive of some sort? Ciri can’t help but imagine her as one of the bards from those romance novels she’d found hidden in the library at Kaer Morhen. She imagines Essi using her charm and talent to get close to nobles, poisoning them in the most dramatic of circumstances. It’s ridiculous, of course, but not _impossible_. 

“I, erm… I’m actually not human,” says the bard. She looks somewhat embarrassed by the admission. “It’s not the _reason_ , but it’s… it’s a factor.”

“Oh?” Ciri presses, when it looks like Essi isn’t going to continue on her own. She doesn’t really know what to say, so she hopes some gentle prodding will be helpful in some capacity. 

Her bet pays off. “I, well, you see… I’m a higher vampire.” _That_ throws her, just a bit. They are, after all, incredibly rare. Though they are in the bestiary, they are so indistinguishable from humans (when they want to be, of course) that witchers very, _very_ rarely get contracts for them. Actually, she’s pretty sure that Geralt had been friends with one, once. Essi continues, not giving Ciri much time to mull it over just yet. “It’s embarrassing, but I… I may have faked my own death? I really would rather not get into the details, but I slept with someone I shouldn’t have. When I realised it… well, I regretted it immediately. So I simply spread the word that I’d died of Catriona, and came here to hide out until anyone who would have remembered me is gone.”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” Ciri says without thinking. 

Essi laughs. “Yes, I know,” she says, “but I panicked. Can’t take it back now, can I?”

“I suppose not,” Ciri says. Perhaps there are ways to unravel the unfortunate lie, but if Essi isn’t comfortable with it, she’s not going to press the issue. 

Casting a critical eye in Ciri’s direction, the bard says, “You’re alright with this?”

“We’ve all faked our deaths at one point,” she jokes back. Essi rolls her eyes (well, the one Ciri can see. The other is covered by her long, golden hair. Still, she can reasonably assume that if one eye is being rolled, then so, too, is the other). 

“You know what I meant, _witcher_.” The emphasis on her title makes Ciri realise that, well, that’s a pretty reasonable concern. 

“We don’t just kill anyone who isn’t human,” she says. “Besides, it would be _terrible_ manners to attack the woman who’s been nursing me back to health. Definitely against Witcher Code.”

Essi laughs, and Ciri feels a little bit like she’s just achieved something wonderful. “Yes,” says the bard, “I suppose you’d know best.” 

Perhaps Essi doesn’t fully believe it, but Ciri means it. Essi’s vampirism doesn’t really bother her in the slightest. From that point on, it just becomes another part of her. Well, it always _was_ a part of her before that, but now it’s a part of her that Ciri is aware of. She was trusted with this, by her friend — and they are friends, _fast_ friends. Perhaps their easy closeness is partly a result of the isolation each of them faces. Essi doesn’t socialise much because she stays where she is, and Ciri doesn’t socialise much because she never stays in one place too long. Both are lonely ways to live, and it’s only natural that they’d find comfort in each other.


	5. Chapter 5

Essi likes to think that she’s a rational woman. The problem is, she knows that she isn’t. She’s a hopeless romantic, and lacks a certain amount of impulse control when placed under stress.

She’s made the mistake of thinking she’s fallen for a witcher, and look where it got her. Now, though… she thinks she’s falling for this witcher, and this time for _real_. It’s not just a blind, physical attraction, or an attraction to an ideal. She honestly likes Ciri. 

She knows that it’s possible that she’s just latching on to the first friendly face that’s stuck around since her “death”. She tries very hard to keep her feelings to herself, because she isn’t sure if they’re real. It’s stressful, of course, but she’s been through far worse. Hiding a crush is nothing in comparison. 

Ciri is beautiful. There are no two ways around that. She thinks that it’s not unreasonable to appreciate her friend’s features from a purely aesthetic standpoint. Girls can find one another pretty, can’t they? And it would be incredibly rude to find someone so beautiful without saying something. Maybe it comes off as flirty, but that’s not her fault. She’s just being _honest_. The flush on the other woman’s cheeks, light as it is, when she’s paid a sincere compliment is as fetching as it is intriguing.

As far as she knew, witchers can’t blush. Their hearts beat too slowly. At least, that was what she _thought_ , but Ciri’s heart doesn’t sound that much slower than the average human’s. Essi’s had enough time to consider it: Ciri has been here nearly a month, now. She helps Essi around the house, hunts for food, brings in firewood. She’s good company. It’s like having a roommate, like back in Oxenfurt, only… well. Essi never felt this way about any roommates she’s ever had. 

Regardless, they’ve become very close in a very short amount of time. Essi knows little bits and pieces, that Ciri lost her family before being taken in by the witcher who became something of a father to her, that there are so few of them left but she loves them all. That surprises her, because from what she’s heard, witchers tend to resent those who made them into what they are. Then again, she’d also thought that witchers were always men, and that they all had feline eyes. There are so many pieces that add up to a whole picture that Essi can’t, but desperately wants to, see. Finally, she gathers up the courage to ask. After all, they have a mutual respect. If Ciri doesn’t want to answer, they’ll simply drop the subject entirely, no hard feelings.

“Copper for your thoughts?” Ciri says, plopping down across from her friend at the small dining table. 

“I’d hope my thoughts are worth more than a measly copper,” she quips back. 

The other woman only laughs good-naturedly. With a smirk, she replies, “Sadly, I can’t afford much else on a witcher’s salary.”

Essi decides that the best thing is to simply go for it; so, without thinking, she blurts out, “That’s the thing, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Forgive me for saying so, but you’re not exactly what one pictures when one thinks of a witcher,” says Essi.

She doesn’t exactly know what she’s expecting. Perhaps for Ciri to be offended in some capacity? Instead, though, the ashen-haired woman simply shakes her head, a small smile playing across her lovely features.

“No,” she says, “I suppose I’m not.”

Essi is about to press the issue, but just as she’s trying to figure out how to word it, the witcher adds, “If you’ve got a free afternoon, I suppose I could give you the story.”

“Well, what do you know?” says Essi, lips quirking into a smile of her own. “My schedule just so happens to have cleared up."


	6. Chapter 6

Ciri isn't exactly surprised that Essi knows a thing or two about witchers. After all, Jaskier's made it his mission to improve their public image since before she was even born. It must have been something close to fifty years, now, since he started his campaign to improve her mentor's reputation, and by extension, the reputation of witchers as a whole across the Continent. That kind of thing is bound to bring them into the mainstream. Besides, everyone knows what witchers look like. 

She doesn't look like a witcher, not entirely. It was bound to come up at some point. She calls herself a witcher, because she is one. She has her own medallion, and though she didn't go through the Trial of the Medallion to get it, she _did_ go through a trial of her own. She earned it with blood and sweat and skill and fury, pried it from the still-cooling, dead hands of a different kind of monster than she usually fights, and if anyone wants to take it from her they'll have to take it in much the same fashion.

At any rate, she isn't obligated to explain her past to anyone. She tends to be rather averse to that sort of thing, on principle. Her past, as it stands, can only bring her trouble. It's behind her, and she's the woman she is now, stronger for what she's been through, but that's all it's good for. 

Still... there's something about Essi. (Ciri knows what that _something_ is, of course; she trusts her. Lambert would have a conniption.) She _wants_ to talk to her, to let her know who she is and what she was and how she got to be who and what and where she is today. 

So she explains. She explains that witchers don't just go through one big mutation. They _do_ , but there's _more_ than just the part everyone is familiar with. It’s actually a multi-step process that starts with their food, some kind of herb or something. It's how they begin to build muscle mass quickly when they're in training, and what makes them sterile. At first, she hadn't really known what she was being given, and the other witchers didn't really think about it. Why would they? It was normal for them. It wasn't until she started to gain muscle at an inhuman rate, until her body started changing, that the resident sorceress took notice and demanded they put a stop to it. _She's a girl,_ Triss had said. _You can't take that from her._

Ciri disagreed. She doesn't regret it at all, being given hormones and mutagens and whatever it is they actually gave her. It helped her get stronger, and, perhaps more importantly, it made her _sterile_. She feels like she can say it, now that there's no one who can try to use it against her: she carries the Elder Blood, and it manifested very strongly in her. She was a princess, long ago. Still is, perhaps, by a technicality, but she'd rather not think about it. She doesn't want that, never wanted that. She wanted to be a witcher, and she is.

The thing is, a lot of different people wanted to use her. The Brotherhood of Sorcerers and Nilfgaard specifically wanted her for her powers and her breeding. Her father — well, her mentor, but honestly, he _raised_ her — kept her hidden at the witchers' keep. When she came back out, her blood wasn't good for anything, at least according to those who wanted her for it. She wasn't hunted anymore, because she couldn't be used as... as some kind of breeding sow. She couldn't create a line of succession, or a more powerful mage, or anything. She was more than just her reproductive parts. Her destiny was her own, finally.

Not being hunted and constantly sought out by those who just want to use her for their own agendas is honestly a blessing. Some people curse their sterility but she revels in it. She'd never been comfortable with the idea of carrying a child anyway. She doesn't have a single maternal bone in her body. When Triss had yelled at the other witchers for what they'd, from the sorceress's point of view, inflicted on her, she didn't stand for it. "I'm glad," she said. "I didn't want to be a woman. I wanted to be a witcher."

"Oh," Essi says, and she looks legitimately put off. Gods, has Ciri made a mistake in telling her? "I'm sorry, I've been referring to you as _she_ and _her_ all this time. Do you... do you prefer _he_ and _him_ instead?" 

Oh. She'd thought Essi would have a problem with her enthusiastic acceptance of her mutations, braced herself for the age-old _how could they do that to you?_ or _are you sure you're really okay with it?_ The idea that the bard would be concerned with what to call her is heartwarming, almost overwhelmingly so. 

“No,” she says, “but I appreciate that you asked. I _am_ a woman. I just didn’t want to be a woman _first_ , or for it to preclude me from being a witcher at all.”

Essi doesn’t try to argue with her, the way she’s come to expect. Even other witchers have a hard time understanding that Ciri _wanted_ this, _chose_ to be a witcher. After all, the Path is difficult and unforgiving. There is no glory in what they are. Why would she choose _this_ over possibly being a _queen?_ She’s heard it all, and the answer is always the same: it’s what she wanted, and she doesn’t have to justify it to anyone else. Essi, though, doesn’t make her say it. She simply nods, says she understands, and allows Ciri to continue.

There is more to the story, of course. At first, the other witchers were horrified at the thought of forcing her to go through what they’d experienced. They didn’t want to take her womanhood from her, because she had never been a boy like they had. Some boys, they’d said, started with bodies like hers, and ended up looking like _them_. She had to admit that she didn’t relish the idea of people thinking her a man, but it was a small price to pay, she’d thought.

Then her uncle — not by blood, of course; the other witchers are her uncles the way they are one another’s brothers; she was adopted by them, more or less, so they will always be her family — offered a compromise, of sorts.

He was, out of everyone, the most against the idea of making new witchers. However, he was also the first to come to the realisation that forcing her to _not_ be a witcher was not much different from the way _they_ were forced to become them. Either option takes away the choice, and not being able to choose this life for himself is what he’s always had the biggest issue with (aside from the obvious, the deaths of the other boys). He’d been the loudest opponent at first, but was the first to see her side of things.

They couldn’t keep giving her their formula, but they couldn’t outright stop. Who knew what it would do to her body? A sudden hormone imbalance isn’t the healthiest thing for anyone, after all. That said, there _were_ other schools, once upon a time. Out of all of them, the Cats were the only ones to accept girls. Surely, their formulae would be better for her, easier on her body. And he just so happened to be friends with a Cat.

(She glosses over the unfortunate history shared between Cats and Wolves. The inner politics of the witcher schools isn’t relevant to the story, and isn’t really common knowledge besides.) 

The Cat formula was, in fact, easier on her body. Though a bit late, she developed as women tend to… except the obvious. She is still sterile. 

Beyond that, she never underwent the Trial of the Grasses. The formulae for _that_ have been lost for a long time, now. Besides, no one would administer it to her even if it weren’t. That is a risk no one is willing to take ever again, and she understands. She doesn’t hold it against them.

“And that’s how I came to be the woman that sits before you today,” she finishes with a small smile. 

“What an ordeal,” says Essi. Ciri tenses just a little, ready to defend her choice, before the bard continues: “Perhaps you should be the bard, with a silver tongue like that. It mustn’t have been easy to convince them.”

Having someone listen to her and respect her choices, regardless of whether or not she understands them, is something Ciri never really thought she’d experience. She’s used to being judged, but she never realised what a relief it could be when someone chooses not to.

 _Gods,_ she thinks, somewhat surprised by the revelation, _I’m falling in love with her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Partly-mutated Ciri is the route I decided to go with this one, because I was going to write it eventually, and I already established that Nilfgaard and the Wild Hunt aren't really a problem in this 'verse. Gods willing I made it coherent lmao. Also, I kinda fucked around with the way the mutagens worked/were administered because, y’know, AU


	7. Chapter 7

Essi is well and truly fucked.

Okay, to be fair, it could be worse. It’s just that, fuck, she’s gone and fallen in love with a witcher. Not just any witcher — her _best friend!_ Well, Ciri might be her _only_ friend, currently, but that’s entirely besides the point. 

The lovely witcher had stayed with her for two blissful months. Oh, Essi wishes that she could just snap her fingers and force time to go back and _stay there._ Would that she could! Alas, that’s not how time works.

She has to say, it’s nice that the other woman is able to just… _pop!_ teleport into her home with but a thought. Oh, she knows that it’s not quite as simple as all that, but she’s no mage. She doesn’t need to understand the details, even if she thinks she could. She likes knowledge, yes, but prefers for it to be useful in some capacity. Chaos theory is not exactly her cup of tea.

At any rate, it’s nice. Ciri can just pop in when she gets the chance, and then pop back out. It’s more difficult if she gets farther away, of course, and so Ciri can’t come ‘round hers all the time. Really, she knows that trying to keep a witcher tied down to one place is as easy as trying to corral a butterfly, and just as cruel besides. She just wishes… oh, she wishes that Ciri would want to stay with her.

Still, she visits as often as she can. It is, at the very least, for a few days a month. It’s more than Essi could have hoped for, in her self-imposed isolation. She didn’t think she _could_ get close to anyone, even the nearby townsfolk. After all, they’re bound to notice that she does not age. Presumably, she’ll have to either move away in a few years, or stop going to town altogether, and the latter is hardly feasible. 

They’ve known one another for nearly a year, now, so it’s not as though she hasn’t had time to mull it over. She knows what she feels for the other woman, knows that it’s genuine. It isn’t _right_ , though. Someone like Ciri cannot love someone like her. A vampire and a witcher? Maybe her brother is that lucky, but surely, he is _the_ outlier. 

She tries to keep her flirting to a minimum. It’s not easy. She’s the type to be very vocal with her appreciation of others. “I love your blouse,” she’ll say to a stranger in Vizima, and, “Oh, your voice is lovely!” to another in Oxenfurt. She’s always been taught that if one has nothing nice to say, one should say nothing at all. Surely, the reverse of that is that if one _does_ have something nice to say, then one should say it if one has the chance?

“You know,” she says one day, “you simply must bring me a sample of your next quarry’s innards.”

Ciri laughs, amused and entirely unbothered by the distinct inhumanness of her friend. It still astounds Essi, that someone who isn’t like her can just accept what she is, so freely and easily. She’d thought that when the witcher said it didn’t bother her, she was simply offering platitudes, trying to comfort her in the moment. And yet, consistently, Ciri has never tried to ignore her true nature, nor treat her differently for it. It reminds her of another witcher she once knew, if only a little bit. 

“Why?” Ciri asks. “Some sort of vampire ritual I’m not aware of?”

Essi laughs, too. She never feels judged, around Ciri. Her jokes never feel like real barbs. They don’t stick and twinge the way they may from another’s lips. “No,” she says, “but looking at you, I can’t help but think they must do _wonders_ for one’s complexion.”

And then Ciri blushes, like she always does when Essi pays her a compliment. It’s not the brightest flush, but Essi is familiar enough with it that she can’t help but zero in on the faint dusting of pink across the witcher’s pale cheeks. 

Another time, they’re brushing one another’s hair. Obviously, they both know how to brush their own damned hair. That said, it’s nice to have someone else do it, once in a while. And, well… it’s nice to brush another woman’s hair, too. It’s soft and smooth, almost silken, in her hands. She likes to try her hand at intricate braids she’s seen but never attempted, and then laugh and start over when it doesn’t go quite according to plan. 

“Your hair is lovely,” she says, running her fingers through the ashen-blonde strands. “I wonder, is that a side effect of those mutations, or were you born with the softest hair on the Continent?”

“Please,” says Ciri, “yours is far lovelier.” It’s Essi’s turn to blush, now. Thankfully, she is sitting behind the witcher. If not, she’s sure she’d simply die of embarrassment, were Ciri to see the blush on her cheeks.

It’s _not_ flirting, Essi tells herself. She’s only telling the truth. And even if it _was_ flirting, it’s not like Ciri would feel the same about her. She probably doesn’t even notice.


	8. Chapter 8

Ciri is going mad, she’s sure of it. 

She’d stayed at Essi’s far longer than was actually necessary. She kept finding little things, reasons to stay just another day, another week. They were flimsy excuses, but Essi seemed to go right along with them. Hells, she had given a number of piss-poor excuses why Ciri shouldn’t go yet, herself. It only makes sense; she’s been all alone in this cabin for years, now. She’s bound to be lonely. Ciri is her friend, and friends are rather hard to come by for the both of them. 

Ciri _knows_ that they are friends, and nothing else. Still, she can’t help but reading into things; if she didn’t know any better, she’d say that Essi was intentionally flirting with her, but that doesn’t make any sense. Essi’s given no indication that she sees Ciri that way. She’s got a flirtatious personality, but she isn’t flirting. 

Gods, though, Ciri really does feel like she’s being teased. If only her mutagens kept her from blushing. _Witchers don’t blush_... unless they’re Ciri, apparently. Ugh. Is she really so starved for affection that a pretty woman paying her compliments is enough to turn her into some flustered, swooning maiden? Apparently, yes.

Essi’s not just some pretty woman, though; she’s Essi Daven, Ciri’s closest friend. She’s kind, open-minded, witty, intelligent, well-read, educated, fun—

Oh, Ciri’s got it _bad_. 

It’s not like she’s never loved before. There’s still that pain in her chest, though muted with time, whenever she thinks of Mistle. Her fingers trace the rose pattern on her thigh some nights, and she can’t help but ruminate on what could have been, if only they had both been someone else. 

They weren’t, though. Things happened the way they did, and there’s no going back and changing things. Mistle is gone, and she wouldn’t want Ciri to hold herself back from living on her account. She avenged her, and she won’t forget her. In the end, that’s all that could be asked of her, now.

She loved Mistle. A part of her still does. Now, though, she loves Essi, too. 

It feels rather absurd, like she’s just falling for any woman who gives her a scrap of kindness. That’s not true, though. She’s been friends with other women, and many people have been kind to her, and she hadn’t fallen in love with any of them. Perhaps things would be easier if she had. She and Bea could have had something, perhaps, if only there’d been that spark. 

It doesn’t matter, of course. She can think about it all she wants, but her feelings are not reciprocated, and she’d never force her affections on someone else. Still, every time Essi compliments her, it takes far more effort than it should to remind herself that it’s meant to be entirely platonic. 

Sometimes, Ciri will compliment her back, and Essi will blush as well. It’s adorable, really, how pleased she is from simple compliments. Ciri wishes that she could travel with Essi, the way Geralt and Jaskier travel side by side, and watch her bloom under the attention and adoration she’d get from the public like a flower in the summer sun. 

It’s perhaps a year and a half into their friendship that she finally musters up the courage to ask for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanna throw in a quick disclaimer that while I know that the “romance” between Ciri and Mistle was not healthy at all in the books, this isn’t written from my POV, and Ciri definitely doesn’t see it the same way lmao


	9. Chapter 9

Essi is in the middle of tidying up when she hears a voice behind her say, “Come here often?” She turns around and sees Ciri, leaning against the bookshelf on the other side of the room. Oh, if only Essi were a painter; the witcher would make a glorious portrait. Her playful smirk draws Essi in like a moth to a flame. 

“Only on days that end in _y,”_ Essi quips. Inwardly, she chides herself for her lack of discipline. Outwardly, she leans back against her desk, crossing her arms, mirroring Ciri’s easy posture as best as she can.

“Sounds like you need to get out more,” says the witcher. 

Essi sighs. “Would that I could,” she says, “but sadly, that’s not really in the stars, for me.”

Ciri raises one brow, and Essi just _knows_ that this isn’t a normal visit. The closer she looks, the more obvious it is. Ciri’s posture isn’t as relaxed as she wants to affect; there’s a tension there, to the way she holds her shoulders, the way she shifts from one foot to the other every now and again. If Essi knows her (and she’s pretty sure she does, by now) then she’s willing to bet her voice that, for some reason, Ciri is _nervous_. 

“See, you’ve said that,” says Ciri, “but I don’t think I really follow the logic. Would you mind walking me through it, again?”

Is this why she’s nervous? Was this what she wanted to discuss, the reason she came here? Essi is honestly, entirely baffled. “I faked my own death,” she says, slowly, “and it was widely reported by a rather famous… colleague of mine, shall we say. Were I to miraculously return to life, well, that would be a bit of a problem, would it not?”

Ciri hums, consideringly. It reminds Essi of something, or perhaps someone, though in that vague sense that she can’t quite place. “That’s the issue, I think,” Ciri says. “I don’t believe it would.”

What? “Are we having the same conversation, witcher?” she asks. “Have you hit your head again? One of those shaelmaar beasties knock you on your arse, perhaps?”

Rolling her eyes, the witcher says, “Come off it, Essi. You aren’t actually dead, is my point.”

“Yes?”

“You can’t _come back to life_ if you aren’t dead in the first place,” she reasons.

Essi sighs. “Ciri,” she says, “it doesn’t matter that I’m not really dead, so long as everyone thinks that I am.”

“Yes,” Ciri counters. “That’s the thing.”

“Okay, we really _are_ having two conversations, it seems.”

Now it’s Ciri’s turn to sigh. “No, we just aren’t on the same page. Look, if people think you’re dead, that doesn’t mean you are. All you’d really need to do is say you’d, I don’t know, had to take care of a family thing? Whatever, you’d been away for some reason, and from that, rumours of your death were greatly exaggerated.”

“Someone has claimed to have buried me,” she says. “That’s a bit more difficult to disprove.”

“Not really,” says Ciri. “It was someone who looked like you, or he was lying. Depends on how much you care about his reputation, I suppose.”

“I—”

“Look,” Ciri says again, looking Essi dead in the eye now, “you’re a bard. You’re a creative woman, and I happen to know that you are able to communicate in more than just Common. Is it so difficult to spin a believable lie? Lesser bards have come up with more.”

Essi bristles for just a moment, before she catches herself. Ciri is used to negotiating, and she knows Essi well. Implying that she can’t do something is one of the easiest ways to get her to do it, and she’d almost fallen for it. 

“Why are you so invested in this?” she asks. Perhaps if she can just understand where Ciri is coming from, this whole thing will make more sense. 

Out of everything that’s been said so far, _that_ is enough to make the other woman avert her eyes. There’s a pause in which the witcher, now wrong-footed for the first time in this conversation, tries to figure out what to say. What she comes up with is: “It can get lonely, on the Path.”

Oh. _Oh._

Essi softens, and all the fight leaves her. She doesn’t know when she became so tense, but nothing really gets her riled like a good debate, and she _has_ been rather isolated, as of late. 

“You would want me with you?” she asks. It comes out soft, too soft. 

She doesn’t get a chance to regret it, doesn’t get more than a fraction of a second to worry, before the witcher’s voice rings out, just as soft: “I can honestly say, I don’t think there’s anything I’d like more than that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some (very minor) real-life stuff is trying to get in my way. Heads up that I _might_ not upload tomorrow, though it's not a sure thing. If I don't, I should definitely be back on my bullshit by Tuesday, at the latest


	10. Chapter 10

Don’t get her wrong, Ciri enjoys her profession. She likes feeding her wanderlust, likes being useful, likes the privacy that her lifestyle entails. It’s just… well, it _does_ get rather lonely. She wasn’t lying about that. 

It just wasn’t the real reason she asked Essi to come along with her. Or, rather, it wasn’t the _entire_ reason. Ciri doesn’t want just any old companion, wouldn’t be content with anyone else at her side. She wants Essi with her. 

She isn’t a fool, despite what Vesemir might say while they’re sparring. That is meant to rile her, and is not valid in situations such as this. The fact of the matter is that she knows that she is a witcher, and Essi is a bard, but she isn’t trying to emulate Geralt. She doesn’t think that if they just spend twenty, thirty, forty years attached at the hip in the wilderness, they’ll fall in love. 

First of all, she isn't that stupid. If someone is in love with her, she’d know it, surely. She’s not a narcissist, but she’s not blind, either. She knows that she’s attractive to a wide range of people. She also has the confidence to back that up. The thing is, she knows that Essi is not one of those people. 

That’s fine. Again, she wants to point out that she is not trying to mimic Geralt. She isn’t so naive as to think that she can just… what, force a relationship by emulating the same circumstances in which the men who are basically her fathers now have gotten together?

(As an aside, it’s utterly ridiculous that it took the two of them as long as it did. Jaskier wrote songs about him for how long? And Geralt put up with Jaskier’s continued presence in turn! They’re hopeless, really. _Men._ Ugh.)

Ciri doesn’t want to travel with Essi because she thinks that life on the road will push them together, or some such nonsense. It isn’t that she’s a witcher and Essi is a bard and that seems to be a winning formula. It’s that she’s Ciri, and Essi is Essi. They’re best friends. Essi’s witty, and even when Ciri is in a foul mood, the other woman is able to pull her out of it very easily, and sometimes without any effort at all.

She’s also a wellspring of knowledge. Apparently, every higher vampire has some sort of special, personalised, magical ability. Essi’s is rooted in communication. She can understand most languages, and speak them with very little effort. She claims that she’s put a lot of effort into honing this ability, but still, it’s impressive as all hells.

“Many of my kind have abilities that affect others,” she said, when the subject was first discussed. “I’ve known others — family members, if you must know,” (Ciri hadn’t asked) “— whose powers are rooted in persuasion, or altering the perception of those around them, or… well, there are a lot of ways that a vampire’s ability can manifest. Mine is one of the very few that I’ve encountered that only affects me. If you were to, I don’t know, speak Nilfgaardian, I could probably understand you, and it wouldn’t take much for me to be able to construct a coherent response.

“See,” she continued, “morally, my ability _can_ be practised. I don’t need someone else to hone my innate skill. I simply need myself, and some books, and some time. Perhaps a native speaker, as well, but it’s not entirely necessary. If my ability was, for example, to plant false memories in others, I would be unable to ethically practise such a thing. Since my power is of a different nature, I have been able to put more effort into honing it than most others that I am acquainted with.”

It makes sense, as much as anything else. That’s another thing about Essi that Ciri admires: she cares about humans, despite not being one herself. Her ethics are sound, are not something that could conflict with Ciri’s in such a way that must end in violence, as is so often the case with those who are not human or elf.

Ciri enjoys her time with Essi, and there is, quite frankly, not enough of it. She visits as much as she can, but it’s rather difficult when she has her Path to follow. If not for _her_ powers, she might not see the bard at all. It’s not a concept that she particularly cherishes, that’s for sure.

It wasn’t entirely selfish, by the way, to ask Essi to come along with her. She likes to think she knows the other woman well enough by now to be able to see that a life of solitude, however self-imposed, was not exactly the type of environment in which the other woman could thrive. After all, a bard rarely becomes a bard if they are the type to prefer solitude. Essi deserves the adoration of others; and really, she oughtn’t stagnate, alone in this cabin of hers, unable to perform for anyone but Ciri.

She’d been worried, at first, that Essi might not agree to come with her. They are close, but it’s rather presumptuous of her to just assume that her friend would want to drop everything to accompany her on the Path. Thankfully, Essi’s boredom must have been great enough that it was practically a non-issue. Once she had been suitably convinced, it was as simple as her packing up her lute, a few outfits, and a coin purse. “I can always replace my personal effects,” she had said. “They’re only things. Besides, perhaps the next person to take up residence here will be able to make use of what I leave behind.” 

And that was that. Now, the two women travel together, through wilderness and civilisation alike. Their dynamic is much the same as when they were staying together in Essi’s cabin; the only difference is the transience of their lifestyle. They are surrounded by vegetation and wildlife far more often than by four walls. Still, the lack of comfort doesn’t bother Essi. It makes sense, of course; after all, most bards do travel. She’d have to be used to roughing it, so to speak. 

If it were possible, they only become closer, and Ciri only falls more in love. Essi has flaws, of course, but that’s part of her charm. She isn’t perfect, isn’t some ideal; she’s simply Essi Daven. There’s no anxiety over whether Ciri is a good enough companion, because they are both equally annoying, in their own way. Perhaps if they didn’t communicate, it would be too much, but they aren’t idiots. They talk about their feelings, about what bothers them as it comes up. They also acknowledge when they’re being unreasonable — if not in the moment, then later, when apologies are exchanged. Neither of them is perfect, but to Ciri, that’s what makes them perfect together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ciri: I'm not like my dad  
> also Ciri: [proceeds to be exactly like her dad]


	11. Chapter 11

Gods, she's missed this.

Yes, Essi enjoys staying put for a little while every now and again. Who doesn't like a break from their day-to-day life? The thing is, travelling is her day-to-day life for a _reason_. It's something that she has always enjoyed. It’s a freedom from anything but the _here_ and the _now_ , as neither is the same from one day to the next. 

And, well… she’s never quite had something like this. She’s young, for her kind, but even so she can’t imagine many others have been in a position such as this: to have someone who isn’t one of them, but knows exactly what they are, and doesn’t have a single issue with it. She never feels awkward, like she has to hide any part of her inhuman nature, where Ciri is concerned.

She has to hide it around others, obviously, in towns and cities. It wouldn’t do for just anyone to know what she is, after all. No, Ciri is unique in so many ways, and that includes how much trust Essi has placed in her. 

It’s a trust that she’s earned at least a hundred times over, by now, and one that she’s never shown even the slightest intention of betraying. Still, sometimes, a part of Essi wishes that she’d never agreed to come along with her.

Don’t get her wrong, she loves this. Something about having a friend to travel with who knows and accepts her for what she is really adds to the already-enjoyable experience of life on the road. (Yes, it’s dirty and uncomfortable and rough and a little smelly, but it’s never _boring_.) It’s just that… well, that’s sort of the problem.

She already has a difficult enough time hiding her affections for the other woman. Sometimes, she thinks that it must be far too obvious, as if strapping a sign to her chest that says _I, Essi Daven, am in love with the Witcher Ciri_ would be less subtle than the adoration she clearly projects. Then, though, Ciri will just continue like everything is fine. Perhaps she’s trying to protect Essi’s feelings by ignoring the obvious, or perhaps she really doesn’t notice, somehow. Either way, Essi tries not to think too much about it.

The fact of the matter is, she finds herself falling deeper and deeper, the longer they are together. She sees Ciri in the heat of battle, her sword arcing through the moonlight, hair wild as she battles her prey — for Ciri is, undoubtedly, a fierce huntress, and the predator in Essi’s core sees in her a kindred spirit — and can’t imagine a more beautiful sight. She sees the kindness with which the witcher treats children, the love she has for her horse, the compassion she shows to the less fortunate, and each moment is just another drop in the well of her love for the other woman. 

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

And, of course, the witcher is kind and caring towards her, in return. She’s even protective, to a point. 

“I know you can handle yourself,” Ciri had told her, not looking up from sharpening her knife, “but all the same, just because one _can_ do something, doesn’t mean one should _have to._

“After all,” she added, “a witcher getting in a scrap? Not exactly noteworthy. We’re mindless, violent beasts, aren’t we?” She punctuated this with a dramatic roll of her kohl-lined eyes, obviously mocking the sentiment. “I rough a man up, it’s not a big deal. _You_ rough a man up, it might turn some heads.”

The logic is certainly sound. Essi _does_ prefer not to get her hands dirty, in that sense. It’s always better to be underestimated in a difficult situation. She prefers not to be considered dangerous, even though she absolutely can be. 

And, well… she has to admit, there’s something nice about having Ciri play as her knight in shining armour. It’s like something out of a fairytale, almost; and it’s nearly enough to distract her from the fact that a fairytale ending simply isn’t in the cards for the two of them.


	12. Chapter 12

Honestly, it’s a wonder that things stay so good for as long as they do. Ciri’s luck has always really been a mixed bag. It would only stand to reason that the other shoe was bound to drop eventually.

They’ve been walking the Path together for months, now, and it’s been something of an exquisite torture. The more time she spends with Essi, the more her traitorous heart falls for the bard. She knows it’s not exactly ideal — even if Essi _is_ interested in women, that’s not a guarantee that she’d be interested in _Ciri_. Still, as much as it hurts, sometimes, that doesn’t make it any less worth it. After all, Ciri is no stranger to pain and heartache. 

At any rate, they’ve been at it for a while. They’re in Velen, unfortunately, which is probably part of the reason everything goes to shit.

It starts as any evening does, when they’re in civilisation proper. Essi sometimes prefers the quiet, perhaps in part due to the isolation she’s been in for the past who knows how long. She doesn’t want to perform every night, and has a habit of flipping a coin when she can’t decide whether she wants to play or not. Tonight, it came up heads. 

“Wish me luck,” she says with a bright smile and a friendly peck to Ciri’s cheek. Her skin burns where Essi’s lips touched, but she pushes it down. The bard is tactile, and Ciri is simply touch-starved, thanks to her profession. No one really wants to touch a witcher, except to try to kill them, or if they are paid for their time. Ciri, as it happens, is no exception. Well, not _no_ exception — sometimes, people will be brave enough to proposition her. She’s been taking them up on it more and more, lately, trying desperately to get over her unrequited crush. It’s just a crush, she tells herself. She can get over it; she’s dealt with far worse.

At any rate, Essi’s beautiful voice and nimble fingers are making her a good amount of coin. One patron in particular is exceptionally generous, and Ciri keeps an eye on him as a result. It’s not as though kindness is unheard of, nor a genuine appreciation for the arts and Essi’s considerable talent. It’s just that it’s not _common_. Ciri knows better than to dismiss uncommon behaviours, especially when they are kind. 

When Essi’s set finishes, Ciri’s gaze follows her to the bar. The bard has already pocketed the coin that the crowd has thrown into her hat, and her coin purse is safely tucked away. Now, she needs to negotiate pay from the tavern, and the price of their room and board. Ciri honestly appreciates that Essi usually takes care of it. It’s not as though the witcher can’t do it herself; people aren’t nearly as awful to her as they are to Geralt, after all. It’s just exhausting, sometimes. There’s a reason she’s a witcher, and not a queen. She would rather train her body than her tongue, and a fight is infinitely more rewarding than a debate, most of the time.

The tavern is crowded, but Ciri still sees the man from before come up behind Essi. He places a broad hand on her waist, and Ciri clenches her mug tightly enough that her knuckles turn white. They have a system, and as much as she wants to go over there now, she’d much rather wait for Essi to try to diffuse the situation first. 

Usually, Essi tries to talk her way out of uncomfortable situations such as this, and if that doesn’t work, Ciri steps in. She doesn’t mind playing bodyguard, and Essi doesn’t seem to mind playing the damsel in distress, even though they both know that Essi could easily hold her own against any human, more likely than not. 

Unfortunately, the man is drunker than Ciri had assumed, or perhaps just more entitled. He grabs Essi’s wrist, and even from where the witcher is sitting, it looks like his grip would bruise if Essi were human. She curses herself for not being more proactive, not staying closer. Now, she has to wade through a tavern full of people; it’s not as though she can teleport over to where they are. She tries very hard not to use her power in public; it’s far more trouble than it’s worth.

She’s quick, but not quick enough. In the time it takes for her to get about three-quarters of the way through the room, Essi breaks from the man’s grip. She turns on her heel, grabs his head between both hands, and slams it down into her knee. There’s blood _everywhere_. The man crumples to the floor, and everyone descends into panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might be going to every other day uploads, or go on hiatus; might also just continue my regular upload schedule. Best place to follow updates is my twitter, @poselikeateam. Sorry for any inconvenience, I've been going through some stuff haha


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for implied/attempted sexual assault. Same event as the previous chapter, but with a little bit more detail. It's nothing graphic, but it might be a bit uncomfortable.

Essi would hardly call herself a misanthrope, but sometimes, she really does hate humans. 

She'd noticed the oily-looking man during her set. How couldn't she? He'd been standing far too close — just far enough that he could claim, perhaps, to be hard of hearing, if pressed, and only a foot or two closer than the rest of the crowd, but close enough for her to take notice for sure. He tipped generously, and while normally she isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, she's not naïve. There's a fine line between someone of means tipping generously because they legitimately enjoy her set, and someone tipping extravagantly because they want something from her. It's obvious in the way he looks at her, the way she can _feel_ his gaze on her body, the way he carries himself. Essi may be a bit naïve in ways of the heart, but she certainly knows to be critical in matters such as this. After all, a young woman on her own is rarely safe in this world, whether she likes it or not.

Still, there are many people here. She tells herself that someone will intervene if he tries to take things too far, though the only person she can truly say she trusts here is Ciri. It's not as though she can't defend herself, if it comes to that, but she really does prefer for it not to. She doesn't tend to find herself in combat situations, unlike her friend, and if she's being honest, she doesn't really know what is an appropriate amount of strength to possess for someone who looks like her. She doesn't want to have to slap a man and accidentally break his neck. (She's not even sure if that's possible. She may have slept through the one anatomy class she tried to take, back in Oxenfurt.) 

At any rate, she isn't looking forward to a confrontation. She wants to sleep in a bed tonight, thank you, and people rarely take kindly to one of their own being knocked on his ass by a woman or a witcher; if it happens to be both, they do not tend to be very forgiving.

Her set finishes, and she scoops up her hat, pouring the coins into her purse with a quick, efficient, practised ease. She then hastens to the bar to negotiate room and board (and, if she's lucky, a bit of extra coin as well) with the establishment's owner. Right now, her goal is to put as much space as possible between herself and the man. She may not be able to magically know the inherent character of a person, like her sister can, but that only means she's had to learn the hard way. She trusts her own experience and instinct in situations such as this, and both are all but screaming at her that this man is _bad news._

She's in the middle of conversation when there's a hand on her ass, and an arm around her waist, and she's being physically turned to face someone else. It's horribly rude. Then she looks, and the _someone else_ is the man from before.

He is well-dressed, for a small town like this one. Whatever his profession, he's clearly affluent to some degree. Though, to call him _well-dressed_ is a bit disingenuous, since a toddler with no eyes could put together a better outfit. No, this man seems to be at that specific level of wealth that causes men to shop for the highest price tag, to show off their wealth, regardless of quality or aesthetic. His jacket looks far too big for him, and the whole ensemble is just garish. 

Of course, she was right about him. He feels entitled to her time — and, more specifically, her body — because he is a Big Important Man and deigned to give her a few more gold pieces than anyone else. She tries, as politely as she can, to decline his advances (and really, her mother is a countess; she knows better than most how to politely say no), but it only serves to raise his ire. "Listen here, you little harlot," he sneers, a hand now around her wrist. The grip would be painful, if not for the hardiness her vampirism gives her. 

In that moment, she isn't thinking about being polite. She isn't thinking about waiting for Ciri to come to her rescue, though the woman is nearly upon them now. She panics, some vestigial memory resurfacing from her human life just enough to make her stop thinking altogether. Barely a beat passes before her hands are on the side of his head, and she's bringing his face down and her knee up. They meet in the middle with enough force that she can feel the _crunch_ of his nose breaking. Her tights are ruined, and the blood has her feeling a bit peckish. Everything stops for a fraction of a second, before the spectacle is followed up by a scream.

"She's killed the alderman!" someone shouts in a panic. He isn't dead, of course — he's still groaning on the ground — but she supposes that when one simply sees him on the ground and blood on her knee, well, it's not too difficult to jump to the worst conclusion. (Not that she actually thinks it'd be a great loss, personally.)

Still, this is not a good situation for her to be in. She knows what small-town mob justice looks like, and if she doesn't get out quick, then when she wakes up next, it'll likely be under six feet of dirt. It's not a thought she particularly cherishes. It's just like humans, she thinks, to ignore when a woman is in danger to protect the interests of a powerful man.

Somehow, she makes it to Ciri, or Ciri makes it to her — they meet in the middle, though that's hardly the point — and after that, everything is a blur.

Literally.

Ciri grabs her wrist, and everything warps and shifts around them. There's a strange, sickening moment where she feels like she's being, at once, both stretched and compressed beyond what her body is capable of. Then, as if she were imagining it, the feeling is gone, leaving only dizziness in its wake.

The dizziness isn't the only thing that's gone, though. The tavern, and everyone in it, is no longer there. Or rather, she supposes, _they_ are no longer there. No, they are somewhere entirely unfamiliar to her, now. Cold air flows in through cracks in the stone walls around them. Ciri lets go of her wrist, and lets out a shaky breath.

"Well, damn," murmurs the witcher. 

"Where are we?" she asks. 

Ciri grimaces, just slightly. "It wasn't intentional," she begins, and Essi gets a sinking feeling that they're somewhere they oughtn't be. "I wanted to get somewhere safe. I didn't expect..."

"Ciri," Essi says again, "where _are_ we?"

"Right," the witcher says. "Welcome to Kaer Morhen."


	14. Chapter 14

It’s a bit of a surprise that she ended up here, if she’s being honest. Or, rather, that she brought the both of them here. At the time, all she’d been thinking about was getting herself and Essi to safety, and not hurting anyone in the process if she could help it. As much as Ciri tries to avoid using her powers around people, well, sometimes it’s simply inevitable. 

She’d grabbed Essi’s wrist (more gently than that awful man had) and just… went. She didn’t really think. The fact that she went all the way to Kaer Morhen…

Well. It is the safest place she knows.

“Kaer Morhen?” Essi asks now, in the present. “Why does that sound famil— oh! One of the Witcher Schools, right?”

“Only one left,” says Ciri. They’re in the entryway. Her senses are a bit better than the average human’s, but not quite to the level of the other witchers. She isn’t sure if Vesemir is in, or—

Oh. There’s a noise from the vague direction of the alchemy labs. Of course, she thinks with a fond little smile. He’ll either be down there, or trying in vain to fix the crumbling walls; and the latter is reserved for the daytime, usually. Not that he can’t see in the dark, but there’s no reason to force himself if he doesn’t have to. 

It seems Essi heard it too. She cocks her head to the side, looking a little concerned. “Is… is it safe here?”

“Safest place I know,” says Ciri. “Uncle Vesemir usually stays during the winter. He’s more or less taken on a custodian role, here.”

“Uncle Vesemir?”

She realises she hasn’t really mentioned any of the other witchers by name. “He’s the oldest witcher alive, as far as I know,” she says. She ignores the fact that she can probably hear them. It’s hard not to brag about her loved ones, and she feels rather negligent having not done so yet. “He taught me everything I know. Well… most things, anyway.”

“Never taught you to talk about others behind their backs,” says a voice to the side. Vesemir’s voice, of course. 

Ciri launches herself into his arms, and he doesn’t miss a beat, catching her and using the momentum to spin her around in a tight hug. “No,” she agrees cheekily, “Lambert taught me that one.”

“Hmph,” is the only answer she gets. He puts her down, and looks her over. “You’re early this year.”

It’s his way of asking, without actually asking, all of the questions he must have. Why are you here, is everything okay, who is this, et cetera. 

“Yes, well, you can’t plan for everything, can you?” she says. “A witcher has to be able to think in the moment, and adapt to change.”

“Wonder who taught you that,” he grumbles. Perhaps if she didn’t know him as well as she does, she wouldn’t see the slight uptick in the corners of his mouth, which to him is akin to a fond smile. 

“Oh, just some old bastard,” she answers with a cheeky grin of her own.

He smacks the back of her head, and she mumbles a very theatrical _Ow!_

“Well, no use in going back down now, this close to winter,” says Vesemir. 

“Aw, you missed me!”

He snorts. “Need another pair of hands around here, more like.”

“Say what you want, old man, but I know the truth!” 

Vesemir rolls his eyes, not bothering to dignify her teasing with a response. Then, he turns to Essi (who looks _very_ awkward, now that Ciri is paying attention). The bard looks somewhat terrified, actually, and is looking at anything _but_ her mentor.

“Oh!” she says, walking the few feet back over to her friend. “This is my companion, Essi Daven.”

“Hm,” says Vesemir. “Pleasure to meet you.” That’s Vesemir, she thinks with a sort of wry fondness. Gruff and polite in equal measure. 

“Likewise, Master Witcher,” the bard murmurs, doing a little curtsy. 

Vesemir snorts. “Finally, someone knows how to show respect to their elders around here.” Ciri knows he doesn’t mean it, of course, and rolls her eyes. “You’re welcome to stay the winter, of course. Don’t expect you’ll have an easy time on the Killer by yourself.”

“The Killer?” Essi asks, looking rather startled.

“The path back down,” Ciri clarifies. 

“I don’t want to impose,” begins the bard, but Vesemir waves her off.

“Nobody imposes here, long as they pull their own weight.”

Essi glances at Ciri and asks, tentatively, “Couldn’t you just…” and waves her hands in a way that’s clearly meant to signify _magic_.

“‘Fraid not,” says the younger witcher. “It took too much out of me to make it here. Vesemir’s right. You shouldn’t try to go back down yourself, and it wouldn’t make any sense to leave only to come back in a month or so.”

It’s clear that Essi is uncomfortable, and Ciri wants to ask. However, she knows that she isn’t going to want to talk about it around the older witcher. With a reluctant sigh, the bard nods. Ciri’s just going to have to ask her about it later, she supposes.

It should all be fine.


	15. Chapter 15

Now, if someone were to ask Essi how she's dealing with all of this, she'd say _better than expected_. It's not an unreasonable assessment, in her opinion. 

Teleporting is disorienting. She has the feeling that no one really gets used to it, even mages. How could they? The act of being in one place, and then suddenly in another, is not natural for most, and is bound to be a little difficult. Once the dizziness subsides, it's all fine, but still. Teleporting is disorienting. Teleporting without being prepared to do so is much, much worse. Teleporting without being prepared to do so to a place one has only ever heard of, well, that's bound to be a lot for any one person to take in.

Of course, when one is also a vampire, and accidentally teleports to what is, essentially, the Witcher Headquarters of the Continent, well. Things are bound to be a little... uncomfortable. 

Look, Essi's never met a witcher she didn't like. She's only met two — three, now — but they are lovely people. They treat her well, with more kindness and respect than many humans. It's not that they're witchers, even though they are sort of created to hunt things like her.

It's not that simple, of course. Essi is no creature, and witchers rarely hunt their kind specifically. Still, she is neither human, nor one of the Elder races. Witchers were created to hunt those that came to this plane during the Conjunction, and that's what Essi's kind are. Even so, if anything, they are something of an exception to the rule. After all, they rarely harm humans, so long as they can help it... well, anymore. They used to be absolutely barbaric, but that was long before Essi's time. 

Higher vampires are the most human-like of all monsters, to the point where calling them _monsters_ is somewhat uncomfortable. They are, like humans, just people. They have wants, desires, feelings. They love — a bit too intensely, perhaps, but one can hardly fault them for having _feelings_. Many — most, perhaps — live amongst humans, themselves. 

So, no, it's not that she's a vampire and they're witchers, not really. 

It's that they're _Wolf_ witchers.

Essi will admit to not being exceptionally well-versed in the history of witchers. She knows there are multiple Schools — or, well, that there _were_ — and not much else. She had been vaguely aware that at least one of those Schools was sacked. Until coming here, she hadn't thought much about it. As it turns out, it was more than just one, but all of them, Kaer Morhen included; and this is the only one still standing, the only one that is still a haven for those on the Witchers' Path. Witchers from any Schools can come here for respite, so long as they behave themselves.

"I thought you'd been trained by the Cats," Essi had asked Ciri, as soon as she was sure the other's mentor must be out of earshot. (To be safe, she'd waited for him to leave altogether, to go hunt for more meat to dry and store.) 

Ciri had frowned, perhaps embarrassed at the misunderstanding, perhaps just confused. "No," she'd answered, "I said I'd taken the Cats' mutagens."

"You have a Cat medallion, though," Essi had pointed out.

"Right," Ciri had said. She looked uncomfortable, and Essi longed to embrace her, to press kisses to her lovely face until every line of tension disappeared. She wanted to make Ciri forget, even for a moment, all of the hardships she had faced. 

But that's not her place, is it? So she'd held her tongue, kept to her own personal space, and did the only thing that she, as a friend, felt she could: she listened to Ciri talk.

Gods. That woman has been through more than anyone should, let alone someone so young. Every hardship has made her stronger, has shaped her, like a chisel on stone; but sometimes, Essi can see the places where her cracks start to form. Essi longs to be the mortar that seals them back together. 

Ciri will never cease to impress her. Essi loves her for her strength and her resilience, but she loves the soft parts, too. She loves the way she looks when she's relaxed, the laugh lines on her face, her easy sense of humour. She loves the way Ciri always falls asleep on her left side, and wakes up on her right, even though sometimes it means she accidentally steals all the blankets when the two of them must share a bed. (Essi doesn't mind. She'd give Ciri every blanket in the world, if only they could share a bed every night. It's wishful thinking, she knows, and she forces it down with all the other emotions that threaten, almost constantly, to boil to the surface.)

Still, this isn't ideal. None of it is. Essi appreciates the hospitality, don't get her wrong! It's just... it isn't safe.

No, not because they're witchers and she's a vampire. In a sense, it's only her vampirism that poses a problem.

Essi needs to feed, at minimum, once a month. It's nearly a month before winter starts, and then several more months until they can leave again. She's not sure what she's going to do. 

For now, she spends her days in the library. Apparently, it isn't nearly as vast as it once was, but there are still an impressive array of books in many languages, some long-dead. She doesn't mind the challenge. She wonders, sometimes, if Vesemir can speak these languages. After all, to hear Ciri tell it, he's the oldest witcher alive. However, she isn't going to just ask him.

She doesn't want to be alone with him, really. It's not as though she fears him, but… well, he’s the oldest witcher alive, and she’s the youngest vampire she knows. How good is she at hiding what she is, really? Likely not good enough to hide it from him, even if she weren’t so damned thirsty. And really, he does seem a nice enough man (gruff, of course, but aren’t all witchers, in their own way?), but would he really tolerate her presence if he knew what she was? She doesn’t want to find out, really. No, best to avoid him altogether, if she can, and at least attempt to keep some sense of peace around here.

Time passes, and Essi hungers. She was already getting a bit peckish before they arrived, was already planning to find someone to sate her thirst that night at the inn. Now, after a few weeks here, she feels like she's starving. She's started getting dizzy spells, and it's nearly impossible to keep her hands from shaking when others are watching.

Would it truly be so difficult to leave on her own? She's not the best at navigation, sure, but surely she could just follow the trail? Perhaps she could have a few weeks ago, but now, she's far too weak to risk it. The last thing she needs is for another dizzy spell to send her toppling off of a rocky cliff. No, she's stuck here, whether she likes it or not. How, though, is she going to get through this, when she already hungers so?

In the end, the decision is taken out of her hands. Perhaps it’s not ideal, but… well, it certainly could have gone worse than it does. At least there’s that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm officially going to an every-other-day upload schedule


	16. Chapter 16

Vesemir sighs and sheathes his practise sword. Ciri glares at him, frustrated and confused, but he only shakes his head.

"No sense in training when your head's not in it," he says. "You won't learn anything if you can't pay attention."

"I'm not—" she starts, but immediately falters when Vesemir levels her with a _Look_. (All the time he'd spent as a fencing instructor has given him more than enough practise.) Huffing an irritated sigh, she sheathes her own sword, then throws it to the side. 

Under normal circumstances, Vesemir would admonish her. _Your sword is the one thing you need to be able to count on. A witcher should take care of their sword as if it was a part of their body._ It's not as though she hasn't heard it before, at least a hundred times. She may have mellowed out considerably since she first came into his keep, but the angry little firebrand she was as a child is still alive and well in her. When something has her riled up, her temper becomes something to rival Lambert's. He's lectured her about it more times than he can count.

There are a lot of long-winded speeches he could give her and lessons he could try to impart in this moment. The thing is, none of them are really what he needs to say in this moment. It's not what she needs right now.

So, he kneels in a meditative position, and beckons her to do the same. 

This isn't uncommon, between the two of them. She won't have the luxury of stopping to calm down in the middle of a fight when she's on the Path. And he'd always taught and _been_ taught that one should treat the grounds of Kaer Morhen as seriously as if they were anywhere else in the Continent. If one doesn't have the luxury of stopping to gather oneself on the Path, then it won't be afforded at Kaer Morhen, either.

But his job is — has always been — to train each witcher under his care, to make sure he does everything he can to make them prepared for life on the Path. And as much as people — witchers included, sometimes — like to think that every witcher is no different than the next, he knows better. He knows to adapt his methods.

A witcher who can't adapt is a dead one, after all. 

So, they started doing this, years ago. When Ciri gets too wound up, Vesemir will stop everything. He meant it when he said that she won't learn anything when she's like this. He halts everything, and they meditate.

At first, she pushed back. She hated it. She thought he was giving her special treatment, coddling her. And, to be fair, there are circumstances in which that's true. He never put her through the egregious tortures he'd had to inflict on countless others. That's certainly a privilege no other witcher alive can claim. He sometimes makes hot tea for the two of them. He even read her to sleep every now and again, years and years ago. 

However, when it comes to her training, absolutely not. If he coddled her, he wouldn't be doing his job. It'd be a disservice to her, and ultimately, her death would be on his hands. 

No. He does not coddle her in training, and he never has. She came to understand that _very_ quickly.

Now, all these years later (and yet so few, compared to how many preceded them) it is simply routine.

He waits until her heartbeat has slowed and her breathing has evened, when she is on the cusp of deep meditation, when she is truly relaxed. He waits, and then says, "Ready to tell me about it?"

She startles — or, well, as close to it as she can in this state. It’s more of a _snapping to attention_ than anything, but even that isn’t entirely accurate, because it implies an urgency, a lack of calm. Ciri simply focuses in that way witchers do when their rest is disturbed. 

(It’s bittersweet, to him — she is a witcher, through and through, and he’s so _proud_ of her and all that she’s accomplished. At the same time, there are a thousand and one better lives she could have had. She could have had a pampered life, never needing to look over her shoulder the way a witcher always must. She _wanted_ this, though, and nothing keeps Ciri from something she’s set her mind to.) 

“Essi’s been acting strange,” she says, finally. He hums, just an acknowledgment, an indication that he is listening. Otherwise, he does not react; he simply waits for her to continue. When she realises that he can’t (or, more accurately, _won’t)_ offer her any insight with so little information, she sighs and keeps talking. “I know something is bothering her. Something is _wrong_. But she won’t _talk_ to me. I’m starting to worry, and I don’t know how to bring it up.”

He hums again, taking a moment to formulate a response. Then, he says, “You know what she is, don’t you?”

She scoffs. “Of course I do,” she says. “And of course you would.”

“You don’t get to my age without—”

“Knowledge and vigilance,” Ciri interrupts. Her eyes are still closed, but he knows she’s rolling them anyway, the little shit. “I know.”

“Hmph,” he says, but he isn’t actually bothered. 

“I think… I don’t know, maybe it’s you?” Ciri offers, then clarifies: “I mean, maybe she doesn’t know that you know. Maybe she’s worried about what will happen when you find out.”

“You want me to talk to her.” It isn’t a question. It doesn’t need to be.

“Would you?” she pleads. Her eyes are open, now, and she’s fully using them against him. 

“Hm,” he says, “we’ll see.”

Of course he’s going to. That said, he’s not going to make it easy on her. After all, at his age, one needs to find entertainment wherever one can. Later, he’ll talk to young Essi. For now, though, he’s got a pup to train.

“Now that you’ve calmed some, pick that damned sword up,” he says, getting to his feet in one fluid motion. He may be old, but his reflexes are still in good shape. And now that that’s out of the way, he can actually give her that lecture she earned at the start of all this.


	17. Chapter 17

"Hm. Good to know someone's actually using these."

Essi jumps, clearly startled, as Vesemir sits across from her in the library. She's been spending most of her time here, he's noticed. Well, it's partly that he's noticed, and partly that Ciri's been mentioning it, giving him those damned puppy dog eyes whenever she does. He can't help but wonder, sometimes, if maybe he indulges her too much after all. 

Ah, well. It's far from the worst thing he's done.

At any rate, she's sitting in the library, reading a dusty old tome (they're all dusty; there's only one of him, after all, and it's not like dusting the shelves is a priority with all the other upkeep this place needs). Or, well, she _was_ reading, but now she's staring at Vesemir, wide-eyed, like she'd just been caught doing something she shouldn't. 

"M-master Vesemir," she says, clearly surprised, "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Didn't do anything wrong," he finishes for her. "Relax." Of course, that's easier said than done, he knows. So, he switches tracks, tries to distract her. They talk about the book she's reading. Vesemir's read everything here at least twice, he's sure, but it's been a while. He wouldn't mind a refresher, he says, and besides, it might be good to get an outsider's insight on a few of these.

Predictably, she opens up incrementally, more and more as she gets deeper into the discussion of what she's been reading. The conversation is pleasant, once she (at least mostly) gets over her skittishness around him. He figures now's as good a time as any to ruin it.

"Didn't know there was anyone alive who still spoke that one," he mentions, off-handedly, as though he were discussing the weather. 

She freezes, and it doesn't take a witcher's senses to tell that she's incredibly nervous again. "I-I, erm, I learned it in my travels," she says, looking at anything but Vesemir. He sighs. 

"I already told you that you're welcome here," he says. "You wouldn't be the first vampire to winter here, and I'd wager you won't be the last."

At that, she is apparently startled enough to look him in the eye again. "Y-you knew?"

Vesemir snorts, then says, "Don't underestimate me, bardling. Surprised Ciri hasn't warned you of that already."

At the mention of her friend, Essi's expression becomes conflicted. "Right," she murmurs. "I... I haven't seen much of her, lately."

"Hm." It's not exactly new information, but she doesn't need to know that. Now that he's alone with her, he can really get a good look at the young vampire in his library. Despite what fiction says about them, her pallor isn't natural. Her hands tremble, just barely, in her lap, which is hardly usual for a musician. She looks like she's lost some weight, too, since she first came to Kaer Morhen. 

Now, most witchers know next to nothing about higher vampires. They aren't contracted to hunt them, and it's not exactly obvious when they meet them. Higher vampires can, at least usually, blend in seamlessly with humans. When a witcher meets a higher vampire, and _knows_ that they've met one, at least nine times out of ten it's because the vampire has come clean about what they truly are. (Of course, that implies that there even _are_ nine higher vampires who've outed themselves to witchers. He's not saying that's not possible, but it seems like a pretty high number, from his experience.) 

The thing is, Vesemir is not most witchers. Most witchers will never knowingly meet a higher vampire, but Vesemir has met several. Most witchers won't strike up a friendship with one, let alone something more, but once upon a time, Vesemir had. Most witchers wouldn't outlive their higher vampire lover (ignoring that most wouldn't even have one to begin with), but Vesemir... Well.

The point is that he knows a bit more about them than most. Hells, he knows way more about them than anyone, if he's being honest. For example, he knows that some higher vampires are born, while others are made. He knows that those who are born do not _need_ blood, but can enjoy it. He knows that those who are made _do_ need it, because otherwise they cannot sustain a body that was once human. 

Simply put, he knows that Essi is hungry. 

There are little ways to tell the difference between a vampire that is born and one that is made. He's sure there are more than he knows, but he knows enough. Essi was human once, and now she isn't. That, ultimately, is not important, not indicative of who she is as a person. After all, he was also once human, and now is something different. He can hardly judge on that alone. However, it does pose a problem. There are only two ways this can shake out, if she doesn't take care of her thirst. Either she lapses into a sort of hibernation, much like the regenerative "death" that their kind experiences, or she snaps completely and goes on a rampage. The latter, obviously, he won't allow. The former would devastate Ciri, he knows, and so he can't allow that either.

"I don't care what you are, so long as you pull your weight," he says, repeating the sentiment from when they first met. "That said, you can't go hungry here."

She looks distraught as she says, "But I... there's no one here that I could..."

He snorts again. "Don't be daft, it clearly doesn't suit you. We both know someone who'd be more than willing."

He knows, because she'd told him just that. _I think she might be... hungry, for lack of a better word,_ Ciri had said. _She clearly doesn't want me to know, but that only makes it more obvious. She must know I'd be willing... I mean—!_ He hadn't let her try to stammer her way through an explanation, because he already knows that she meant what she said, and she doesn't need to justify it. She's a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions. And, well, it's not a decision he particularly disagrees with, but only because he knows it's safe. Higher vampires, especially those who are turned, have far more control than their lesser brethren. It's nowhere near as dangerous as, say, offering oneself to a garkain. It's still dangerous, but nothing in this life isn't.

"I couldn't—" Essi says, then stops herself. "I don't want her to feel like she has to."

Vesemir isn't entirely sure why she's opening up to him so much, but it's probably because he's the only one there is to talk to about this. It wouldn't be the first time he's played that role for someone, and he's never really minded. 

"So talk to her," he says, getting to his feet. "And then, when you're up for it, I'll give you your tasks for the winter."

Maybe this old library will finally get dusted after all.


	18. Chapter 18

Ciri has been distracted lately. She hardly thinks it’s her fault, with everything that’s been going on. It’s no surprise that Vesemir would catch on to it. It’s also not a surprise that he’s willing to help her. It’s not exactly something she was sure he’d agree to, but it’s not a _surprise_. He has always, consistently, done what he could to help those under his care, even long before her grandmother had been conceived. He cares deeply for her, always has. And, well, she happens to know that he has a bit of a soft spot for her. Whether it’s because she’s the first girl he’s trained, or the first child he’d been able to train without torturing, she isn’t sure, and she isn’t stupid enough to ask. 

What’s important is that he helps her. Or, at least, he says he will. In the meantime, she tries her best to keep herself busy. She practises her forms, she runs the walls, she brushes up on alchemy, she works on the outer wall repairs. Anything she can do to keep her occupied — nothing too tedious, because her mind will wander, but other than that it’s fair game. 

It’s only a day or two of this, of her restless energy causing her to bounce from task to task, before Vesemir tells her that his part is done.

Gods, she’s making it sound like some spy drama or a thriller novel. It isn’t. It’s just her best friend being distant. (It’s more than that; Essi isn’t well, and she’s absolutely dreadful at hiding it.) Still, he’s spoken to her. That’s good. That’s progress.

As much as she wants to immediately go find the other woman, she knows that’s not exactly reasonable. She can’t just rush in without giving her time to think about everything. 

So she waits.

She gives Essi another day to think about it, hoping every time she hears the slightest noise in the creaky old keep that it’s Essi coming to talk to her. Waiting is torture, always has been, but she can do it. She can do it.

The very next day, she corners Essi in the library. She knows that’s where the other woman has been spending most of her days. Hopefully she isn’t always this predictable when she’s trying to avoid someone. (At least she didn’t fake her death this time.) 

Essi is straightening the books and dusting the shelves that don’t require a ladder. From the way she’s swaying on her feet, Ciri thinks that it’s probably for the best that she stays on the ground. There are so many things Ciri wants to say to her, so many ways she can think to start the conversation they need to have, but none of them seems good enough. 

She only has so long to decide, though, before Essi is turning around. Ciri is not a child, she doesn’t dive behind the nearest bookcase to avoid detection (though there is a rather substantial part of her that wants to). She simply stands where she is, and says the first thing that comes to mind.

“Come here often?”

Essi falters, like she wasn’t expecting Ciri to be there, but it’s only for a fraction of a moment. Then, she falls back into their usual back-and-forth, like nothing is wrong, like nothing has changed. 

“I might ask the same,” she says with a smirk, leaning back against the shelf. “What’s a beautiful woman like you doing in a place like this?”

It’s exactly what they needed to break this weird tension between them, Ciri thinks, and she can’t help but laugh. “Looking for a far lovelier woman than I,” she answers. 

The bard bites her lip, clearly embarrassed, but doesn’t quite blush like she usually does. It reminds Ciri, very suddenly, of why they’re having this conversation in the first place.

“Would you mind terribly if—” Essi begins, but at almost the same time, Ciri starts talking, too. 

“I want you to bite me,” she says. Well, she sort of shouts it, a little. She can’t help it; she’s nervous. Not about being bitten, mind, but about Essi’s potential reaction. Ciri’s prepared for a fight, honestly.

She isn’t prepared for Essi to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she can’t help but demand, a little petulant.

“It’s just that, oh, that’s what I was about to ask you,” she giggles.

“What?”

With laughter still in her voice, and mirth shining in her eyes, Essi says, “I was going to ask if you wouldn’t mind… well, exactly that.”

“Oh.” 

Yeah, Ciri wasn’t expecting that. Suddenly, she’s so relieved that she feels almost dizzy with it. Maybe, after this, things will finally go back to normal between them.


	19. Chapter 19

Essi has thought long and hard about her her talk with Vesemir. Of course, she knew immediately that he was right. There’s no way for her to continue like this. It’s just that, Gods, what right does she have to ask something like this? She’s already imposing on the witchers — yes, they say she’s welcome, and they act like it, too, but surely that’s just because she’s already _here_? It’s not as though she’d be invited here otherwise.

She’s fine with that, by the way. It’s not like she’d be chomping at the bit to infiltrate Ciri’s winter home. Ciri isn’t obligated to invite her, and it probably wouldn’t be wise, anyway, as evidenced by _all of this_. And besides, even though Ciri brought her here, she didn’t _mean_ to. She’d unthinkingly jumped to the safest place she could think of. She wouldn’t have had to if not for Essi.

Well, that’s not entirely accurate. Essi didn’t ask to be manhandled by some entitled, self-important yokel. Still, she didn’t have to break his nose. (Then again, with the way the townsfolk ignored her plight, and then turned on her as soon as she secured her own safety, was there really any other way that this could go?) 

She’s working herself up, and she knows it. It’s just that knowing it doesn’t really keep her from doing it. 

Still, she thinks about it. She actually thinks about it a little too much, if she’s being honest with herself. Is this really something she can ask for? 

Yes, actually. She’s being ridiculous. Ciri isn’t a pushover by any means. If Essi asks for something that she is unwilling to give, Ciri will tell her, and there will be no hard feelings between the two of them. And, really, it’s the best bet she’s got when it comes to making it through the winter. It’s not like she has many other options. 

Just as she’s almost gathered enough nerve to confront the other woman, Ciri appears behind her.

Well, she doesn’t _appear_ in a literal sense. There’s none of that teleporting, or anything of the sort. More accurately, she walks into the room, and Essi just isn’t paying enough attention to her surroundings to catch that. When she turns around, she sees Ciri, and she’s… she’s nervous, suddenly. Why is she nervous? This is _Ciri_. They’re even joking, bantering like normal, in that way that makes Essi’s heart flutter even as she sternly reminds herself that she’s reading too much into things. 

And then.

Then, oh, they both ask for the same thing at the same time, and Essi is so relieved she can’t help but laugh. It’s like a weight has lifted from her shoulders, like the tension between them was suffocating her and she’s taking her first fresh breath of air in weeks. There’s a giddiness that she can’t seem to shake, and she isn’t quite sure if she wants to. 

They both want this. Or, at least, they’re both okay with it. She’s sure Ciri isn’t doing this because she’s excited to get Essi’s teeth in her. It’s sweet, though, that she cares this much. 

Essi figures that she should get this show on the road before her traitor heart can take even more liberties than it already has. Before she can suggest it, though, she’s hit with a very sudden burst of vertigo. The whole room is— it’s not so much _spinning_ as it is _distorting_ , stretching, like the floor has just been pulled out from under her and she’s tumbling, free-falling. 

And then Ciri’s lovely, strong arms are around her, and she’s being guided to a seat. More specifically, she realises when the vertigo subsides, she’s sitting in Ciri’s lap. For just a moment she’s almost glad that there isn’t enough blood in her for a proper blush. The closeness, the intimacy, is overwhelming. She tries so hard to ignore it, but she’s already so dizzy, not quite in her right mind. 

“Always wondered what these thighs would feel like,” she mumbles against the witcher’s neck. Oh, _oh_ , she smells incredible, and the way her pulse jumps— Ah, Essi’s mouth is watering, and her fangs fill her mouth somewhat awkwardly. There’s a hand on the back of her head, gentle, guiding her to where Ciri’s shirt collar is pulled aside. Gods, she wants—

She doesn’t have to want, she realises. She can _have_. 

So she bites.


	20. Chapter 20

It’s not as though Ciri has never been bitten by a vampire before. She doesn’t make a habit of it, certainly, but it’s just one of the hazards of her job. Anything with a mouth can bite, and anything she’s trying to kill will absolutely try. Her training is solid, of course, and she’s a fair bit quicker than most, even without her powers, so she can usually dodge any bites, slashes, tackles, or what have you. It’s just that sometimes, she’s not fast enough, or she gets blindsided, or any number of things. Things go wrong in any profession and any situation.

The point is that she’s been bitten by vampires before: bruxae, alps, katakans, even a fleder, once. It’s not ideal, of course; she can’t take Black Blood like her uncles, so all she really gets out of it is distracting pain and, if she’s exceptionally unlucky, dizzying blood loss. She can hardly say that being bitten by vampires is _pleasant_ by any means.

However, that seems to only apply to _lesser_ vampires. Perhaps it’s the violence inherent to their more bestial nature, or the fact that they are trying to harm her. Perhaps higher vampires simply have yet another boon from nature that she’s just finding out about, one that makes their bites feel incredibly good. Perhaps, a small part of her whispers, it’s just because it’s Essi.

The bard doesn’t tear into her. She doesn’t go excruciatingly slowly, either. It takes a moment for her to start; first, she nuzzles Ciri’s neck, breathing in deeply. The wounded, little noise Essi makes, full of hunger and want, makes Ciri’s heart speed up and her head spin. Is it magic, or is it just _her_? She can’t say; her medallion is the farthest thing from her mind right now, and she can hardly pay attention to any of the other telltale signs of Chaos being used. No, all she can pay attention to is Essi Daven, sitting in her lap, hot breath puffing against her neck. Ciri tries, and partially fails, to suppress a shiver, especially after Essi murmurs something about having wondered what Ciri’s thighs would feel like. 

Melitele save her, this might not have been the best idea.

When Essi bites, it isn’t feral, nor is it tentative. It’s swift, measured, practised. It’s not that she isn’t careful, but that she isn’t _overly_ careful. She knows what she’s doing. Ciri trusts that much, at least. 

Maybe she shouldn’t trust a vampire like this. Gods know Lambert would never, and he’d certainly not like to hear that she does. This isn’t about Lambert, though; and besides, despite what he likes to think, Vesemir _does_ care about keeping not just her, but all of them safe. If this wasn’t a good idea, he’d have said so. 

She doesn’t need to justify this to anyone, and she doesn’t know why she is. Maybe it’s just that she’s clinging to whatever quasi-rational thought she can that isn’t the warm weight of Essi Daven on her lap, the wet heat of Essi’s mouth on her neck, the feeling of Essi’s hips under her steadying hands. There’s a dizziness that she can’t attribute to blood loss, because she surely hasn’t lost nearly enough blood for that yet. It’s a sort of euphoria, almost, like a drug without the side-effects. She’s floating, she’s _happy_ , she feels so _good_. 

When Essi pulls away, Ciri lets out a small whimper before she can catch herself. She isn’t even entirely sure the noise has come from her, except for the fact that she can feel it in her throat. Essi doesn’t go far, though; she only pulls back just enough to lave her tongue over the punctures she’s left in Ciri’s skin. The witcher lets out a quiet, shuddering sort of moan, and unconsciously clutches the other woman just a little bit tighter.

“Oh,” Essi murmurs, placing her arms around Ciri’s shoulders in what her addled mind can only think of as a _loving embrace_. “Oh, Ciri. Thank you.” 

“Of course,” she murmurs back. Essi sounds drunk, and Ciri barely sounds any better. 

“You’re so kind,” Essi breathes. She leans back just enough to lock eyes with Ciri, and now the witcher feels like she’s drowning in the blue of her eyes. 

Ciri snorts rather inelegantly. “Hardly,” she scoffs. She realises, somewhat belatedly, that she has one hand on the back of Essi’s head, gently petting her hair. She doesn’t have it in her to be embarrassed about it when everything just feels so _nice_.

The vampire smacks her, somewhat clumsily, on the arm. “Oh, hush, you. You _are_ kind,” she slurs. “You— you _care_. About _people_. A-and not just people, but— but _things_. Like _me_.”

Now it’s Ciri’s turn to be offended on her friend’s behalf. “You’re _not_ a thing, Essi.”

The bard giggles lightly, entirely unbothered. “See? That’s my point!”

“That you’re a person?” Ciri is bewildered, somewhat, and she really needs Essi to clarify what, exactly, _the point_ is supposed to be.

“Yes. No. That I’m a person to _you._ ”

Ciri scoffs again. “You’re so much more than that,” she says before she can stop herself.

Essi sighs happily, nuzzling against Ciri’s neck again. The witcher thinks, for a fraction of a moment, that she’s about to bite her again. Instead, she just stays there, seemingly content to rest in Ciri’s arms. 

“You’re so good,” she whispers. “Gods, Ciri. You make it really hard to stop loving you, you know?”

Suddenly, it’s as if Ciri’s been dropped into a freezing river. The bittersweet moment shatters like glass, the fog lifting from her mind in an instant. “I’m sorry, _what?”_ Surely she’s misheard.

“Mm,” Essi answers, not moving from her comfortable spot. “There are so many things I love about you. Don’t— don’t tell, okay? You’re my— my best friend. I don’t want to scare you away.”

Ciri is overwhelmed. She’s confused, and hopeful, so hopeful that it hurts when she tries to tamp down on it. “Essi,” she says gently, “you couldn’t scare me away if you tried.”

Essi giggles again. She sounds drowsy. Surely she doesn’t mean this. Isn’t blood something of a drug to her kind? Some say that wine is the strongest truth serum known to man, so by that logic, would blood be the same for a higher vampire? Or is she simply misreading things? It’s a platonic love, surely; sisterly at the most.

“I love you so much,” Essi whispers. It’s quiet enough that Ciri has to strain to hear it. “I wish… I wish you’d…” She yawns and cuddles closer. (Ciri didn’t think they _could_ get any closer. She might be panicking, a little bit.) 

“Essi?”

“Hm?”

“Wish I’d what?”

The vampire pulls back again, and her bleary eyes lock on Ciri’s once more. “Wish you’d want me,” she answers. She sounds so _sad_. Oh, Gods, she looks like she’s about to cry.

“Of course I love you,” Ciri says. It’s the truth, of course, but she wouldn’t say it if she could think of a better way to calm her friend. This is— it’s all so _much_. “Come, let’s get you to bed, okay?”

“Oh my,” Essi says, clumsily wiggling her backside where it still rests on Ciri’s lap. Her melancholy from mere moments ago is already seemingly forgotten. “Rather forward of you, isn’t it?”

“To _sleep_ ,” Ciri clarifies. 

Essi sighs. “Right. Can’t have the witcher I want. I know that.”

“What?” And really, she knows she needs to stop dragging this out, but it’s as though every other word out of Essi’s mouth is only designed to confuse her further.

“I don’t want you because you’re a witcher,” Essi clarifies. That isn’t even remotely what Ciri was asking about. “I swear it’s a— a co… con… co-inky-dink.” 

The witcher lets out a quiet laugh at her friend’s rather endearing drunkenness, even though she’s still spectacularly confused. “What is?”

“I don’t _just_ fuck witchers.” Essi is pouting now, as if Ciri has somehow just accused her of such. 

“You’ve fucked a witcher?”

“Mm-hm. Told you already.”

“No,” Ciri says, “you most certainly did not.”

“Did so,” Essi argues. “Faked my death. Remember?”

“Wh— I thought you’d slept with _Jaskier!”_ Ciri cries. 

Essi visibly cringes. “My _brother?_ ”

“Jaskier is your brother? Jaskier is a _vampire?_ ” She’s known him practically her whole life. How did she not know? Does Geralt know? What the fuck? She has so many questions, but before she can put any of them to words, she’s struck by, perhaps, a more pressing one. “Wait, who did you sleep with?”

The bard ducks her head to press her face against Ciri’s shoulder again. “Don’t wanna say. Mm. Big, grey, handsome. Gruff.”

 _ **“VESEMIR?”**_ Ciri shouts so loudly that the walls tremble. In a moment, the older witcher is there, as if he’d been waiting to be summoned. More careful of her power, now, though hardly less quiet, she yells, “You slept with _Vesemir?”_

“That’d be news to me,” the older witcher says, crossing his arms. He looks relieved, and like he’s trying to pretend he’s not. Ciri wonders if he thought she was in real trouble. 

“Nooooo,” Essi whines. “Geralt.”

 _“You fucked my **dad?**_ ”


	21. Chapter 21

Essi wakes up in bits and pieces, rather than all at once. It’s not so much a gradual awakening as it is becoming aware of different aspects of the waking world one at a time. The first thing she notices is that the hunger is gone. That needle-scratch pain in her throat, the sharp, stabbing feeling in her stomach, the weakness and dizziness, all of it is gone. She feels well again, whole. It’s a very nice feeling.

The next thing she notices is that she’s warm. She’s lying on something soft, plush, and there’s a nice weight on top of her. A bed, and furs. She is comfortable. Then she notices noises: the crackling of a fire, the dry turn of paper, as if someone is reading a book. Perhaps they are. She opens her eyes.

Now that she’s more or less fully awake, memories of the night before come back to her in fragments. Ciri had so graciously allowed Essi to partake of her blood, and it was absolutely delicious. She’s never tasted anything finer, she thinks, and she’s taken enough tours of Toussaint to know a thing or two about delicious things. She remembers drinking Ciri’s blood, and she’s rather content. Then, she remembers all that came after.

Oh. Oh, _fuck._

The embarrassing parts crash into her like a herd of stampeding cattle, quickly enough to feel like it’s all hitting her at once. It flashes through her mind, rapid-fire, in increasing degrees of severity. Sitting in Ciri’s lap, confessing to her, propositioning her, and admitting— 

Oh, Gods. She had no idea that Geralt of Rivia was Ciri’s _father_. 

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Ciri says. Essi sits up like a bolt launched from a crossbow. There’s a slight vertigo when she does, but that’s to be expected, sitting up so suddenly. She looks over at the other woman, and tries to assess the damage. 

Ciri isn’t armed, and she doesn’t seem angry. If anything, she looks amused. Dear Gods, is that better or worse? Is she amused at Essi’s expense? Is she amused at what an absolute spectacle she made of herself? 

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing that comes out of Essi’s mouth. Well, she had been contemplating just acting like nothing happened, but she’s gone and thrown that right out the window, it seems. 

Ciri smirks at her. “Oh?” she teases. “For making me carry you all the way to bed? Or for fucking my dad?”

Essi winces. “Er, both, I guess.” She feels like an absolute asshole, but also… she feels like Ciri’s a bit of an asshole, too, mocking her like this.

At her obvious discomfort, though, the witcher’s face falls. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I was only teasing. I’m not upset about it.”

Honestly, Essi can’t help but scoff. “At which part?” she asks. 

“Any of it.” Ciri looks and sounds so serious, like she really means it, but that doesn’t make any sense. Maybe it’s obvious that Essi is thinking this, because she adds, “Really. It’s not like you knew he raised me; you didn’t even know me at the time. Actually, was I even _born_ yet? No, don’t answer that. Sorry, I know I’m rambling, but I mean it. It’s not like I ever thought Geralt was celibate; frankly, I’m surprised something like this hasn’t happened sooner. And I don’t mind carrying you. It was… it was rather nice, actually.”

Rationally, Essi supposes it makes sense that Ciri isn’t actually upset with her for her unfortunate past sexual decisions. It’s not a rational thing, and Ciri is a mostly rational woman. That said, most people don’t exactly like the thought of their friend having sex with their parents in any context. It’s uncomfortable. That’s part of why the next thing the witcher says gives her pause. She remembers, vaguely, Ciri flirting back with her. She remembers the way the other woman’s heart sped up when Essi (very clumsily) came onto her. She remembers saying that she—

She loves her.

No, no, no. Why couldn’t Essi keep her damned mouth shut? She said she loved Ciri, didn’t she? And Ciri said it back, yes, but she couldn’t mean it in the same way Essi did, surely? Even if she did then, she wouldn’t now. Not knowing that Essi once _slept with her father_.

“Hey, look at me?” Ciri says, drawing Essi’s attention back to the present. “You alright?” 

“I— I don’t know,” she answers. It sounds dramatic, but it feels like the truth. Essi is working herself up, just like she always does; she knows she is, and yet, she still can’t stop it from happening. Worries and fears flash through her mind like lightning. She doesn’t know where they stand now, where things can or will go from here. She doesn’t know what she’s going to do without Ciri’s companionship. She doesn’t know how she’ll be able to handle it. Her kind aren’t exactly the best at dealing with rejection. When they fall in love, they fall _hard_. And it was fine, when Ciri didn’t know. Essi was so careful, because she would always rather have Ciri in her life as her friend than not at all. Now that she knows, can anything go back to the way it was? 

“What do you need?” Ciri asks her. The witcher is kneeling in front of her, keeping her gaze on Essi’s eyes. She sounds so gentle, so concerned. It hurts. She can’t _breathe_. She needs to, though. She can’t just lose her composure now. The timing is awful. Ciri’s such a kind, caring, wonderful person, would she feel like she has to continue being friends with her even if she isn’t comfortable, just to keep Essi happy? It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing she would do; after all, she is strong, independent, and stubborn. She doesn’t do things just because others want her to. But sometimes, she does get that whole martyr complex that seems so prevalent in witchers. She won’t do things because others _want_ her to, but she absolutely _will_ if she thinks they _need_ her to. She feels like she has to do things to protect others, even if it might be to her own detriment. Which category would this fall into? Essi doesn’t want to find out, honestly. She doesn’t want to lose Ciri as a friend, but she doesn’t want Ciri to feel like she has to remain her friend out of pity, either. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them.

“I need… some time,” she murmurs, fighting to keep her voice even. “To compose myself. Then you can, um. We can talk. About… everything.” 

She doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t know how long she’ll need, or if she’ll only make things worse being on her own, or how she’s ever going to be ready for this conversation to begin with. 

“If you’re sure,” Ciri says, looking at her dubiously, “but I don’t think that’s for the best right now. We really shouldn’t put this off, should we?”

Essi swallows. “You… I don’t know…” She really doesn’t. She doesn’t know what to do or say. She doesn’t know where to start. 

“Do you regret it?” Ciri asks. She must realise that it’s far too broad a question, because she clarifies, “What you said to me, I mean.”

That’s still far too broad. “I said a lot of things, Ciri.”

The witcher won’t meet her gaze now, a stark contrast from moments earlier. “Right,” she says. She sounds just as nervous about all of this as Essi feels, just as frazzled, just as _scared_. “What you said about… about me. I suppose I’m asking if you meant it.”

Essi is pretty sure she knows exactly what she’s talking about, now, but she’s already said far too much, already put her foot in her mouth too many times. Instead of answering, she waits for Ciri to either clarify further, or… or something. She doesn’t really know.

Ciri doesn’t, though. She doesn’t clarify, she doesn’t demand an answer, she doesn’t _anything_. Essi doesn’t know which of them will break this silence first. She doesn’t know which of them should. There’s a lot she doesn’t know, right now, and she hates the feeling now more than ever. 

And then Ciri gets to her feet. “Right,” she says again, as if Essi’s silence answered her question. Or, she realises, maybe it answered one she hadn’t put to words. She has a sudden moment of clarity, and a rather frightening amount of hope. She knows she’s taking a risk, yes, but damn it, she knows Ciri. People flirt with Ciri all the time, and she _never_ thinks less of someone for finding her attractive and going for it — as long as they do so respectfully, of course — so why would Essi be an exception? The absolute worst that can _reasonably_ happen is that she’s kindly turned down, and they can laugh about it later. It’s hardly a leap of faith, but more of an inevitability, when she finally speaks.

“I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean,” says the bard. “Not one word.” 

That makes Ciri stop in her tracks. She stares at Essi for a long moment, so intensely that the vampire briefly feels like she’s staring right through her and into her soul. Then, she says, “Neither did I.”

Essi must not be paying very much attention, because it seems like one moment she’s sitting in her bed, and the next she’s flung herself into Ciri’s arms. They hold each other so tightly that, were it anyone else, someone might break in half. They’re laughing, and at least in Essi’s case, it’s because the relief is so overpowering it bubbles over and spills out of her in waves. She’s giddy with it. 

“I love you,” she says. 

“I know,” Ciri answers back with the absolute cheekiest smirk Essi’s ever seen. This time, she knows she isn’t being made fun of. She’s being flirted with. “Or you really do have a secret witcher fetish. Either works for me.”

“Ciri!” 

She wants to be at least a little annoyed, but it’s very hard when Ciri is pressing little kisses to every part of her face that she can reach. Oh, she could get used to this. 

“I’m just glad you didn’t fake your own death this time,” says the witcher.

Essi knows that she’s never going to live this down. She’ll never hear the end of any of it. Still, weighing the pros and cons, she figures she can definitely live with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, we have _finally_ reached the end of this installment. Thanks so much to everyone who stuck with me this far. I am not going to do the thing I did last time and put off telling you what the next (and final!) ship is going to be in this series (which has already turned out to be several times longer than I originally anticipated fjslkdfjk)
> 
> Anyway, the moment we've all been waiting for. The last ship in this series is going to be...
> 
> **_Vesemir/Regis!_ **
> 
> I probably won't get to it very soon but there's also probably going to be a good bit more side stuff in this series so stay tuned lmao


End file.
